


Haunted

by traipsingexodus



Series: Homunculus [8]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Death, Fear, Hope, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 06:45:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11270151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traipsingexodus/pseuds/traipsingexodus
Summary: You say that we haunt you. But truth has a terrible habit of being an ugly thing. Makes things go sideways and backwards. Awful, really. It's a bit ironic, yes? We don't haunt you, child. I sorely wish we did. You see, it's quite simple:You haunt us.





	Haunted

The sun was hot on Dorian's back. He stopped in the shade of a tree for relief and chewed on a question that had been bothering him about this peculiar Mismagius that he'd caught. This chatty, interrogative, almost _annoying_ Mismagius. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and watched the ghost drift to and fro, strange arm-like appendages that formed on the front of her pseudo-dress swaying in the wind and occasionally rising to swat at something unseen.

A giggle came alive in the air around him and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "Someone has a question," said a singsong voice.

"You let me catch you." It was a statement. Dorian chewed over the question for a moment longer and finally said, "Why?" It was all that really concerned him about Melia. She was strange, unlike most any Pokemon he'd ever met, and he wasn't sure if he liked her. He certainly didn't dislike her, but she was exceptionally odd. And it all started with how he caught her.

"Yes child, I did indeed. I let you catch me. You were so kind to listen to this old soul and hear me out."

"But why did you let me catch you? Why didn't you run? Attack? Turn invisible? Something...worse?" Ghost types did not have a great reputation in his town. He doubted they had good reputations anywhere, but having lived his life in the country, he had no basis for this assumption. They were spirits, possibly the departed, possibly evil energy or eldritch whispers – whatever they were, they made the blood run cold of most everyone in his town. And he'd gone ahead and caught this curious Mismagius.

"Because I wanted to talk. I wanted to pick your brains." Melia floated before him and raised the appendages in sarcasm, "I'm going to eat your soul next!"

Dorian half-flinched, eliciting another giggle from Melia, who twirled for added effect. "Oh, little one, you scare so easily. I'm quite happy I let you catch me. I was positively _dying_ for a new charge to bother." She locked eyes with him. "I presented myself to you because I saw someone interesting. I know why the humans climb this mountain. Heavy hearts dripping in sadness and the flames of fear alive in their bellies." She smacked her lips. "No real reason to leave when there's fear in the air to eat, as my sisters, daughters and I are wont to do."

"So those old legends were right," replied Dorian slowly. "Why do you eat fear?"

"A curse from the gods themselves, child, and I do not know to what end." She gazed off into the distance and then focused back on him. "But, you asked a question, so let me answer: here comes a strange boy, with a stony face and determination in his gut. No sadness burns in his cold heart, and only irritation follows in his wake." Melia drew closer. "And I was curious. So I showed myself and you looked at me with an almost disdainful disinterest. As if I was so common, so passable that my mere existence was an annoyance." She smacked her lips again. "And so I thought the time had come to enrich someone anew."

Melia flipped upside down. Whenever it was time to pick Dorian's brain, test his morals or otherwise annoy him, she did this. His progress was slow because of constant inquiries, and he reasoned that she didn't give even a fleeting damn about how slow the going was for it. No matter really, he thought, as he was hiking to the top of a mountain to pay his respects to those that had long left this world in his family out of obligation, not genuine empathy. As it stood, he had paused himself to stand in the shade, he could hardly blame her.

"And now you've got a question. And you're going to slow me down again because of it." He sighed. "What is it?"

"Oh, you're so _pushy_ now that we've gotten to know each other. The pushiest human I've met yet, you know." She twirled about in the air and came face to face with him again, still floating upside down. "But I'll cut to the chase for this one. Who picked your name?"

Dorian stopped and reached into his pouch to remove an oran berry. "My parents did. Named me after my great grandfather. Never knew him."

"Do you like it?"

"I don't care. It's a name. Not much more." He studied her, chewing. "Another question for me now?"

Melia flipped about and continued to float backwards as they marched on. "Of course I do dearie," she replied, "I want to know why you listened to a creaky old Mismagius when you caught her. Or why you even waited to catch me. You found yourself confused that I didn't attack; I found myself in much the same position. Frankly, I expected you to simply attack me and think later about the consequences."

Dorian took a bite of his berry and stopped to consider Melia. He swallowed and said, "You told me to stow my Galvantula and have a chat about catching you." He finished his berry. "That caught me off guard. No Pokemon I've ever seen just talks to Trainers and what not. And...well, the legends say ghosts are ill omens and bringers of doom. At least the townsfolk do. I wanted to see why a ghost Pokemon would bother to just have a chat with me."

"But if I'd just attacked your overgrown, furry battery you'd have gone about things the way you've always done it then? Attacked without another thought?" The usual smug grin had faded somewhat.

"I suppose. That's how these things work, isn't it?" He'd upset her somewhat – the grin had not faltered much at all in the short time he'd known her.

"Not always. Not forever. Now, but eventually – well, who knows?" The grin returned and Melia came uncomfortably close to his face again. "But you had a chat with this old Mismagius, and you even let her keep her name. How kind of you. I feel you haven't been rewarded properly."

Dorian took a step back, a look of mild disgust on his face. "I'm quite fine, I don't need whatever you've got planned for me."

Melia's laugh was more ethereal than her voice; when she spoke, it was as if the winds had come alive to whisper or shout their message all around Dorian, but when she laughed it came like the sound of disharmonious wind chimes heard through a long tube. It made his head hurt, if he was honest with himself. And Melia laughed. A lot.

"Oh my. My, my, my." She fixed her gaze upon him with half-lidded eyes. "You've got me all wrong dear." He blinked and Melia was before him again. A shiver ran down his spine. "You're not quite my type." Blink. Back to where she was – a comfortable distance away. "I feel you're in need of the reward of information. Stories. _My stories._ As I said, I believe I've found someone to enrich, and so I shall."

Dorian groaned and marched forward. "Not enough to pick me apart on things I've never thought about?"

Melia flew in front of him and flipped upside down, the grin on her face widening. "Oh, it's never enough dearie." Dorian's head drooped and he gestured for her to continue. "I chose my name."

"Odd thing to do. Odd enough that I've never heard of it. I didn't know Pokemon could do that. Why Melia? I assume you're going to tell me why anyway."

"Some can. Ghosts especially have a particular affinity for choosing their own names. Gives us all something to hold onto. Our chosen names are a sort of unifying bond, even. But the meaning—another time, another place. Maybe even beyond that. But not now, little one. For now, I tell you this: I chose my name, and by the gods that damned me to wander I have kept it. Blessed am I with irony's curse: life unending I didn't request."

Dorian groaned. "What the _hell_ are you talking about?" Melia had gone cryptic on him a couple of times before in the last few days and it was always difficult to penetrate what she meant. He was ill-equipped to deal with it—he'd grown up at the foot of a mountain in Unova, far from large cities – from excitement and wonder. Far even from the mediocre action of town life. A tiny rural community was his home and what he felt for it was the closest feeling he'd felt to hate in his life. Obligations kept him shackled there, and his own sense of what is good and right kept him from reaching for the keys. Melia was interesting, but in all the wrong ways it seemed. Clearly, her unlife has made her excellent at asking strange questions and even better at speaking cryptic nonsense. Was it so hard to be straightforward? To just say what she meant and not send him stumbling blindly through a labyrinth of strange phrases?

"You'll understand when you're older." She considered him for a moment – he was twenty. "Or not. You _are_ a bit daft. Just an eensy-weensy bit." She laughed, then harder at the scowl that Dorian threw at her. "What I am saying, Dorian, is I reach out and take what I can make my own, because I've already had everything else set in stone. Just like you really. Stuck at home until someone frees you, and lets you go on to the great beyond." Melia laughed again, harder still, the edges of it tinged with bitterness. "A ghost! A living ghost, just like me." The chuckles subsided. "But free. Not now. But soon enough. Free." She flipped right-side up again.

"Any time you want to make this all make sense, feel as free as I'm supposedly supposed to be. Now instead of soon would be better too." Dorian sighed. Whatever she was saying was a frustrating mixture of interesting and alienating.

The two walked in silence for a minute before Melia said, her tone now carrying uncharacteristic meekness, "You didn't choose your name. But you can change it. If you want. I knew one who did. He ran from his demons." She paused – Dorian thought he heard her sniffle. Somehow. She had a nose? "And they found him anyway. Your face doesn't change, even as the skin sags and the wrinkles set. Even when an eye goes missing, a nose breaks. The name changed, not the person. Not their fate.

"I can change my name. You can change it for me. That is different. Wrong say I – say some. Right say others. Most don't care. Most never gave it thought.

"But we are the same little one. We were given this lot by the gods, and by their uncaring grace we'll stand by them. I'll stand by my fate."

He definitely heard her sniffle.

"I ran from the demons, just as he did. They gave chase. And when they caught up I hoped they'd rend me apart, leave me as naught but scraps of death on the forest floor. But now, those demons just watch." The air had caught an unnatural chill, and Dorian could see his breath mist out before him. "With eyes of amber, sapphire, and emerald. With smiles of familiarity, joy and love. One reaches out and the clawed hand swipes through with no pain, it leaves in its wake only fleeting sorrow and then the cold, familiar void. And the wail. The unending wail when the swipe is useless. As useless as it was when the demon was still whole."

Dorian stopped. "Melia." he said sharply. "You're making the air cold."

The Mismagius turned to him – her eyes bored through him, straight into the thicket behind him, and out somewhere far away. The air began to warm and the smug grin came to life upon her face again. "Of course dear. Forgive me. But you packed a sweater, didn't you?"

With a grumble, Dorian pulled the sweater from his pack and pulled it on. The unnatural chill had gone, but now the chill of night's approach would take hold. The sun was dipping ever lower in the sky. "Thank you, _mother._ "

The Mismagius twirled, her laughs ringing out in the forest. "Oho! At long last, he proves himself capable of being light-hearted. Sarcastic, yes, and dumb as bricks, but at last! Humor!

"Well, child. You've gone and interrupted me while I was busy enlightening you as to the way of the world, so we'll leave the rest of that story for another day. But you will promise not to interrupt again, no matter how cold it gets. You've your sweater and I've a tale."

"We'll see." was all Dorian replied. The rest of their walk was done in silence, until the sun dipped below the horizon and forced them to make camp. As Dorian erected his tent he sighed and said aloud, "Melia?"

"Yes dear?"

"Sorry. I don't understand you half the time, but, for what it's worth, that story sounded sad." A pause. "Was that the point?"

The Mismagius descended upon Dorian and rested her chin on the crown of his head. "Oho! Empathy too! What a well-rounded and proper little human you're shaping up to be, and all it took was a few day's travel time with an old crone."

Dorian shivered. Every time Melia touched him he felt as if he'd been plunged into a freezer.

"But before you open your mouth to argue, I accept your apology. This is tough material here Dorian, but the sooner you understand, the better. You're learning the most important lesson of all: the grand reality we all must face." She paused and sighed. "Well, almost all. There are a few that do not face the coming dawn. Dusk. However you wish to see it. No, there are a precious few possessed of great strength, unusual cunning or deep-seated fear that shirk this reality the rest must face."

"What's that mean? Come on, I'm not sleepy, maybe what you'll tell me will help put me in the mood."

Melia's grin widened. "Sharper and sharper he becomes!"

The smile faded away and Melia's gaze flicked up at the stars and moon. "Alright child, listen closely. We who feed on fear have not the strength to trounce the equalizer, nor the cunning to evade him. What we have is what we eat. An abundance of it, locked away, and some of it, just enough of it really, is our own. We who feed on fear carry it in our hearts. We look upon each dawn with disdain as the days stretch out into decades. We grow tired and weary of the little creatures that plague us. The maw opens and we race to the edge..."

The air was growing colder again, even more so than Melia's touch could bring.

"And in all my years the fear in my heart paralyzes me still. I flee from the open arms of the demons, the gaping maw and peaceful oblivion. The maw closes with a frown and I am left to wander again for decades before the pain becomes too much to bear and I go out to seek a new maw to swallow me." She stopped and continued to stare up at the sky.

The unearthly cold dissipated with Melia's frown.

"I just don't understand why you're telling me this, or even what it is you're telling me. Does it affect me? Can I even do anything?"

Sight unseen to Dorian, Melia's eyes softened and the grin became genuine. "No my dear. It doesn't, and you can't. And you are more lucky than you'll ever know because of it."

Dorian gazed out into the darkened woods. "Who are the demons that chase you, Melia? Why am I lucky?"

Melia floated before him and looked him in the eyes. "Your demons rest atop this hill, Dorian. Buried and forgotten by your heart. They do not haunt you, as you have made peace with them, or perhaps you simply never bothered to let them manifest."

"But I am not so lucky. I do not put the demons to rest, nor do I let them leave my heart. I let their grasping, pleading claws snatch at me every day because I fear a day without them. They will surely follow me to my grave. As it should be. I need their soft embrace to pull me under, and hold me close to the breast of oblivion. The gods know I wouldn't go quietly, nor willingly. Such is my curse – our curse. All of my sisters and daughters."

Dorian reached out and placed a hand uneasily on her head. It felt like he'd dipped it into ice water. "I'm sorry Melia. I think I understand a bit better." He paused.

"You're old."

She gave him a small smile. "How rude." With a sigh she continued, her voice a whisper, "I am old. Very, very old. Spry as ever, you have seen. But weary. Oh so very weary, child." A strange substance formed in the corner of her eye, flickering a soft purple and dripped down her face.

"All those demons – were they trainers?"

The fat tear dripped down the earth and left a glistening patch on the ground. "Some. Trainers, companions..." A long shaky breath. "Lovers." Another tear. "Demons."

"I'm sorry," mumbled Dorian. He felt awkward. He hardly revered the dead, and paid them precious little mind. He resented climbing this mountain to pay respects to the departed. And here Melia was haunted by the dead in a way he might never be. He shifted uncomfortably. He felt compelled to help. But how? He had no experience in these matters. He scratched his cheek and finally said, "Anything I can do?"

Melia looked up at him, eyes shining. Her voice was barely audible. "You could run, child. Before I name you demon."

He stared back and swallowed, mouth dry. The fire beside them had died. Oppressive silence weighed on his ears. He continued to stare at her, and the seconds stretched into minutes.

Tears ran freely down Melia's face. "So be it." A genuine smile formed on her face. "Perhaps you'll be the last."

Dorian's eyes widened. "How many times have you said that?"

Melia conjured a peculiar wisp that lit the fire again, her voice regaining its composure and cheer."The last few, now." At the look on Dorian's face, she added, "One day I'll be right, and I will die. And I owe that to a simple fact: hope doesn't."


End file.
